The Bourne Destiny
by eDub13
Summary: Jason Bourne and Nikki Parsons are targeted by the head of clandestine operations, who wants to clean up after the events of "The Bourne Ultimatum."  Bourne and Parsons go on the run, uncovering a conspiracy that nobody saw coming.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

**Venice, Italy**

David Michaels wanted out of the organization.

It's not that he grew tired of his profession, he actually enjoyed the meticulous work associated with the stalking of prey before being able to go in for the kill. It was soothing, and provided an excellent escape from stress. He didn't understand how somebody could work in an office all day, or even part of the day.

David watched through the lens of the large scope mounted on top of his Barrett fifty caliber sniper rifle, as a black Mercedes Benz pulled to a stop in front of the hotel. A thin blonde exited from the back of the Mercedes, and made for the hotel's large glass entrance.

David checked the picture he had of the target, ensuring that he had the right person in his sights. Once confirmed, he eased back the Barrett's trigger until eventually the pressure became too much, giving way and sending the 5.45 inch bullet out of the gun with an explosion of noise and fire.

David watched through the scope as the bullet landed at it's destination, causing the blonde woman's head to disappear into a cloud of red mist. David knew that red mist to be a sign of success, and very quickly packed up his weapon and gear. As he turned to start the slow march down the hill that served as his killing nest, he found himself looking down the barrel of a well used Colt .45.

The man holding the gun did so without any jitter, and the barrel appeared rock steady, a fact that registered thoroughly in David's mind. How had he not been careful to cover his rear, he wondered, pushing the thought from his mind before it had even had time to resonate. David was a professional, and he knew that it wouldn't do any good to look backward and beat himself up; he needed to look forward and find a way out of this situation.

"Stop! Polizia!" the man with the gun said in Italian. "Non si muovono."

David stayed where he was, watching as the man took out a pair of nylon wrist restraints, keeping the gun steady the entire time. As the man moved closer, intending to make his arrest, David quickly grabbed the wrist that the gun was in, stepping out of the line of fire just as the weapon boomed in the man's hand. Keeping a tight grip on his wrist, David used the palm of his other hand, jamming it hard into the man's elbow. A faint popping noise could be heard, as the gun slipped from the man's hand and he backed away in horror, looking at his broken arm.

David picked up the fallen .45 and quickly disassembled it, letting the pieces fall to the ground. The man with the broken arm looked at him questioningly, a sign of relief spreading across his sweaty face.

"You're not going to kill me?" the man asked uncertainly, a degree of hope in his voice.

"Don't be silly," David said, pulling his own pistol out from the back of his pants and firing two shots into the man's chest. "You made my day slightly more complicated."

**CIA Headquarters, Langley, VA**

"Sheffield," the man answered simply.

"Rich, we've got a problem," the man on the other end of the line said, his tone urgent.

"Venice?"

"He killed a cop to get away; the police are looking for him."

Richard Sheffield thought about the supposed problem, wondering if there was any need for concern. He was a careful man who hated loose ends.

"What about the job?" Richard asked for the first time.

"It's done," the man replied. "Landy is dead."

"Do nothing," Richard instructed, leaning back in his leather desk chair. "The asset is smart, he'll manage."

Sheffield ended the call, placing the black telephone back into its receiver. He glanced over to the left side of his office, where a small whiteboard stood perched on its aluminum stand. Attached to the board were three pictures, with names scrawled in marker underneath.

Sheffield crossed the room, removing the photograph labeled 'Pamela Landy' from the whiteboard. He then stepped back, staring at the two remaining pictures. The faces of Jason Bourne and Nicky Parsons stared back at him.


	2. Chapter One

First I'd just like to say thank you to anybody/everybody that's been reading. I started reading fan fiction out of boredom and became addicted, deciding to write my own. Let me know what you think, good or bad :] Second, I'm currently on spring break so I'm going to try and post one or two chapters a day. However, I do have to go back to my University, and I fear that I won't post as often as you or I would like. If you want a new chapter than email me or message me and tell me to get my ass in gear. I promise that I will dutifully oblige. Happy reading :]

Oh and I don't own the rights to any of the characters herein, and am not liable for copyright infringement as this is "fanficition" as seen by the header of this page. If the rights of the characters are somehow infringed than I will be sure to remove any and all postings containing said infringement. If for some reason (and I'm just throwing this out there) you own the rights to the Jason Bourne franchise and wish to relinquish those rights to me then I encourage you to feel free in doing so. I will gladly accept.

Now that thats out of the way, ENJOY!

-Erik

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Paris, France**

Jason Bourne sat in his new apartment in Paris, reading the New York Times.

The headlines spoke of war in the middle east, a looming oil crisis, and how the Yankees had lost five straight. Typical, everyday news. It wasn't until Jason reached the classifieds, that he noticed something amiss.

There, amongst apartment listings, job offerings and, offerings of a more personal nature, Jason spotted it: a light blue 1967 GTO for sale, marked well above it's worth. The description was sparse, but offered a number for the seller. A Paris number. Nicky's number.

Jason dressed quickly, and headed for the pay phone at the end of the block. The last standing pay phone for several miles became a sort of solace for Bourne, who had become obsessed with not leaving any sort of trail of his existence.

Bourne reached the pay phone, dialing the number listed in the classified ad after paying a euro. The familiar French ring purred in his ear, graciously reminding him just how far away from Manhattan he finally was. After just a few moments, Nicky Parson's cheerful voice answered.

"Hello?" she said.

"I saw your ad in the times," Jason replied, looking up and down the street to ensure nobody was watching. "The price is a bit much though for me ... I would be more inclined to pay twenty-thousand, not twenty-five." Jason repeated the memorized phrase exactly, and stood waiting for her reply. If she agreed to a price negotiation than he would leave, making only one stop at a hidden alcove under a bridge where he kept additional passports, money and a gun, before leaving Paris forever. If she stuck with the initial price, however, than he would know that they were clear, and could talk freely.

"I'm sorry," Nicky said back to him, "but twenty isn't enough. The listing is for twenty-five."

Jason breathed out, glad that he wasn't compromised. He had come to like Paris, and didn't want to leave just yet. Not again. "What's going on Nicky? We agreed to only contact each other if necessary."

"Can we meet Jason? I'm in Paris."

Bourne checked his watch, wondering what Nicky had to say that she didn't want to say over the phone. Not wanting to admit it to himself, he did find the idea of her company soothing, and needed a break from his monotonous, lonesome routine. "Do you know the L'Autre Café on Rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud?" he asked, continuing to look at his watch.

"The red one on the corner?"

"Yeah, meet there in an hour." Bourne hung up the phone and headed south, looking for a taxi.

* * *

Bourne arrived at the café forty-five minutes later, instructing the cab driver to let him out a block away.

Taking his time, Bourne walked back to the café on the opposite side of the street, then walked a block further before finally crossing the street and turning back the way he had come. Once he reached L'Autre he was sure that he hadn't been followed, but he took a table at the back, nearest the fire exit, just incase.

Ten minutes later Nicky Parsons entered the small café, after stopping momentarily to read the specials written on the large black chalkboard attached to the outside of the bright red building. After spotting Jason, she marched over quickly, and took the seat opposite him.

"I hear it's supposed to rain," she said, grabbing a leather menu and continuing to look at the specials.

"Why are you here Nicky?" Jason asked quietly, leaning forward.

"Nice to see you too Jason," she said sarcastically. When he fell silent she continued: "Pamela Landy was killed in Venice."

Jason leaned back in his chair, scanning the room. "Why?"

"I don't know, but I've got a feeling they'll be after us next. It's starting all over again."

Jason contemplated this, his mind wandering to his stash of weapons and money. He was tired of running. Tired of being chased. Perhaps it was finally time to fight back. Time to stand his ground. He looked across at Nicky, who was willing him to speak. "Your hairs longer," he finally said, commenting on the long blonde curls which had changed since last seeing her.

"Yeah and I got a French manicure too," she said. "Seriously Jason, what are we going to do?"

"I thought this was over ... I thought this all ended with Vosen and Hirsch."

"Apparently not ... Why would they want Landy dead? Vosen and Hirsch are both in jail and a new director was announced when Obama took office. Why now?"

"I don't know," Jason answered truthfully, wondering the same question. Why now and why Landy?

"Are you eating?" Nicky asked, once again submersed in her menu. "I think I'm having the pot-au-feu special."

"Beef stew isn't my favorite," Jason said, scanning the room yet again. "How did you know Landy was killed in Venice?"

"I hacked the New York server," she said proudly. "After, well, you know, I like to keep up to date on everything; make sure nobody's gunning for us."

"And the phone number in the times?"

"My apartment number ... Guess that will have to change after I get a thousand calls about a car that I don't have ... What are you looking at?"

Jason was staring over her shoulder, closely looking over everybody in the room.

"Can I get you two some drinks?" The waitress asked in French, sliding over to their table.

"No, we were just leaving," Jason said quickly.

The waitress disappeared, leaving Nicky to awkwardly gape at Bourne. "What's wrong?" She asked, looking back.

"I think you were followed. Guy in the track jacket at the bar and the couple near the second window ... Possibly a fourth reading the paper in the corner."

Nicky glanced behind her, taking in each person he had pointed out. "They look like normal people Jason?" she said in a question.

"That's the point. When I tell you we're going to leave through the fire exit just beyond my right shoulder. Ready? Now."

The two stood quickly, pushing through the large red fire door and sounding a high pitched piercing alarm. The door led directly into the attached building, Stream Line Graphics, and out onto the one way side street, Rue Edouard Lockroy. Jason and Nicky followed the street away from the café, before crossing Avenue République and turning right onto the Rue Oberkamp.

Nearly a block away, Jason and Nicky entered the Luna Park Hotel. The discreet, four story hotel, provided an excellent vantage point and Jason and Nicky watched the street from the hotel's lobby.

"What is going on Jason?" Nicky asked nervously, keeping a close watch on the outside sidewalk.

"They traced your hack and I'm assuming listened to our conversation. They knew we'd be at the café."

"But why? Why are they interested in us just trying to live?"

"Let's find out," Jason said, half smiling.

* * *

The taxi eased to a stop, two blocks out from Nicky Parson's apartment.

"Wait here," Jason said, leaving Nicky to wait for him inside the cab.

Bourne walked slowly, his eyes roving from building to building, car to car. Finally, he spotted it: a black SUV parked directly in front of Nicky's apartment. So much for camouflage, Jason thought to himself.

Nearing the SUV, Bourne scanned the buildings, including Nicky's, and couldn't spot anybody else. He crossed the street, placing the SUV to his left, Nicky's apartment to his right, and picked up a loose brick that bordered the garden of another apartment.

Using the brick, Bourne smashed the passenger side window of the SUV, spraying glass all over the seat's inhabitant, the girl from the café. Opening the door from the inside, Bourne pulled the girl from the car, who was still shocked from the explosion of glass. He quickly took the gun she had from her shoulder holster, using the butt end to hit her over the head, knocking her unconscious.

Bourne raised his claimed gun to the driver of the SUV who was now out of the drivers seat, his own gun at his side.

"Don't," Bourne said simply. The man dropped his gun, his hands rising slowly. "You're the couple from the café," Bourne said, signaling to the pair of them. "What do you want?"

"We just want to talk, that's all," the man said, arms still raised.

"Oh good," Jason said cheerfully, "I'd like to talk too! Now come over here next to your partner." The man walked around the car, coming to a stop next to the unconscious brunette. "Take her handcuffs," Bourne instructed, watching the man carefully. He gathered the handcuffs attached to her belt and held them out for him. "Put them on, nice and tight," Jason said.

"Is she dead?" Nicky's voice asked from behind him.

"No, just unconscious. Go unlock your apartment and get out a roll of duct tape and a sharp knife. Quickly."

"I won't talk to you, no matter what you do to me," the man said in a snarl, nose upturned.

Jason ignored him, signaling with the gun for him to walk toward the apartment. They walked slowly up the steps, and into Nicky's home. She stood in the kitchen, holding the supplies he had asked for. Jason marched the man further in, placing him on a dining room chair. He then used the duct tape to secure him tightly.

Bourne exited the apartment and collected the woman from the street, still laying unconscious. In the same routine he returned, fastening her securely to a second chair. He slowly walked to the counter, grabbing the knife, before turning and staring at the man before him.

"Let's start with your name," Jason said, walking nearer to his captor.

"Piss off! I already told you I'm not saying anything!"

"I just want a name," Bourne said sighing heavily. "I don't want this to be more difficult than it has to be."

"Fine, fine ... You want a name? The names Bond, James Bond." The man laughed at his own joke, and stared back at Jason menacingly.

"Actually, your name is Brian Cawley," Jason said matter of factly, "and you work for the embassy here in Paris."

The man named Brian Cawley just stared at him, his mouth open a bit in surprise. "How do you," he started, his sentence falling short.

"Well for one, you're fat ... Obviously an embassy man; I doubt anybody would ever clear you for field duty, and second you're here, which says a lot. I'm not stupid, and the company knows it. If they wanted to catch me, or even kill me, than they wouldn't expect to do it where I had been compromised in the first place. They didn't, however, account for me wanting answers. So in short, they posted you two at the place I was least likely to show, which makes it the place I'm most likely to show. The company isn't exactly brilliant, you see."

"But how do you know my name?" Brian asked, his head slightly tilted to the side like a dog that didn't understand what you were saying to it.

"You didn't think I'd live somewhere without studying every face and name from the company and from the embassy did you? A lot of people have wanted me dead for a long time; you don't stay alive by simply clicking your heals in hope."

"So what does that mean?"

"It means I want you to answer a few simple questions, like I said."

"You might know my name but you can't make me talk. I won't."

Jason sighed once more, deliberately showing more frustration than he was feeling. Jason knew that he would talk, everybody does. "I told you I studied every embassy and company employee in this area Brian. I wasn't lying."

"So what?" He said it nervously, like he knew what was coming and couldn't stop it. Like he heard the sound of a train coming down the tracks. It was inevitable and he couldn't stop it.

"Your partner," Jason said, "is a bit skinnier than you. Prettier too. That's why she works for the agency and not the embassy. Sound about right Brian?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"They paired you two up together for surveillance. Your cover was that you're a couple, maybe enjoying Paris on your honeymoon or some shit like that. Am I close? But why would they pair you with somebody as pretty as her? She's gotta be, what, six, maybe seven years younger than you?"

"What's your point?" he asked, sweat forming on his brow and beginning to slide down his face.

"My point is they paired you as a couple because you _are_ a couple and would look natural together. Isn't that right Alice Cawley?" Jason and Brian both turned to look at Alice, who was stirring in her chair. Jason turned the knife around in his hand, back and forth, until finally Brian Cawley noticed it.

"What do you want?" he asked, eyes wide.

"I want to know why you're after me, who sent you, and why Pam Landy was killed. Three simple questions that I need answers to. Are you going to give them to me Brian?" Again, Jason turned the knife around in his hand. Bourne knew that he had him the moment he had said "Alice" and watched Brian's eyes grow wide with fear. Fear and realization. That's all it took to break somebody.

"We were sent by..."

"Don't," Alice said, cutting him off. She gave him a cross eyed look from her chair, her ice cold eyes boring into his.

"He'll kill you Alice, just do what he says."

"I said don't Brian Alexander Cawley!" She nearly growled his name, emphasizing every last syllable. Turning her head to face Jason she added: "Besides, he won't kill either one of us; he's gone all soft and gooey."

Bourne took the Glock 17 out from his wasteband, firing a shot into the tiles next to Alice's feet. Nicky let out a small scream from behind the kitchen counter.

"YOU THINK I WON'T ALICE?" Bourne screamed, playing his role thoroughly to the end. "YOU THINK I WONT PUT ONE IN YOUR HEAD WHILE YOUR HUSBAND SITS THERE TO WATCH?"

Brian let out a small audible gasp, tears clearing forming in his eyes. "I'm sorry Alice," he said, giving her a sympathetic look. "We were sent by Tom McPherson, the London section chief," he started, eyes fully on Bourne who knew that he was telling the truth. "He pulled a bunch of us from our Paris job's to follow you. We were just supposed to do surveillance; tracking your every movement. Who you met with, where you went; that kind of thing."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I really don't. He didn't say, all I know is that he wanted your every move tracked. We weren't supposed to log it though, just send everything directly to him."

"Why was Landy killed?" Bourne asked, hiding his emotion from the question.

"I have no idea, all I know is she was killed by a sniper in Venice. That's it, I swear." He continued to sweat and was leaning forward, trying to say everything he knew. Satisfied, Bourne stood, handing the knife back to Nicky and putting the gun back in his waistband.

"You're an idiot," Alice Cawley said to her husband, head down in defeat.

"I'm sorry honey," he replied back sweetly. "I couldn't live without you."

Bourne pulled Nicky into the first bedroom off of the hall, quietly closing the door behind him. "You've gotta pack, quick and light. You can never come back here."

Nicky looked at him questioningly, something clearly bothering her.

"What is it?" Jason asked.

"Were ... Were you really going to kill her?" She sounded scared, the same way that Brian had sounded scared a few minutes ago.

"Of course not; I had to pretend that I was serious to get him to talk."

"Oh," she said back. Her simple statement revealed what she was thinking; the fear that she had for him returning to what he had once been.

"I'm not like that anymore Nicky, you know that." His eyes held hers, and for the first time in awhile he was reminded of Marie.

"I know that I just ... I worry sometimes Jason."

He placed his hand behind her back, pulling her close to him. "I'm not like that Nicky," he said quietly. "Things are different ... I'm different."

"What's going to happen?" She asked, placing her head onto his shoulder.

"I don't know," he said, stroking her hair like he had once stroked Marie's. "Whatever happens, just know that I won't let you get hurt. You trust me, don't you?" He pulled back, staring into her light brown eyes, waiting for her answer.

"Completely."

Jason headed back into the kitchen as Nicky packed, watching the couple he had captured. He couldn't help but notice how happy they looked, despite having been duct taped to two dining room chairs. They were laughing together, and smiling; happy just to be in each others' company, no matter what the circumstance.

"Are you ready?" Nicky asked from the hallway behind him.

The two exited the apartment together, turning left toward where they had arrived via the taxi earlier. Jason checked his watch, noticing that it was nearing the evening. "Do you want to get some food before we leave?" He asked, realizing that he had deprived her back at the café.

"Sure," she said back, smiling. "Where are we going anyways?"

Jason looked up as a 747 jumbo jet left it's steak of white against the otherwise blue sky. "London he said," continuing to walk alongside her. "We need to have a chat with Tom McPherson."

* * *

I outlined this (novel, novella? what is this?) today and I'm excited at what I've come up with. I think the plot I'm setting up is interesting and puts a fresh mix on the Bourne fanfic. Please tell me how I'm doing, and if I've somehow missed the ball (so to speak) entirely, than I apologize. I know my writing isn't great, but maybe some enjoyment can be found from it.


	3. Chapter Two

_Thanks again to everybody who has been reading. I do apologize that it took me this long to post ... I had originally intended for this to be up one day after Chapter One. Also, I'm sorry for the complete boringness thus far. I'm just trying to set the plot and develop the characters a little. I promise it will get more interesting. :]. So read and comment! Which reminds me, thank you to simbagirl for my very first review on the site [:_

_Well, enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**London, England**

Jason Bourne and Nicky Parsons landed at London's Heathrow international airport around seven thirty in the morning and, after waiting in a line at customs, finally made it out to the long row of taxis around eight thirty.

"What's the plan?" Nicky asked, once they were both comfortably seated in the back of one of London's cabs.

"We need to talk to this McPherson guy," Bourne said back," but we can't just march into his office, so we'll need to draw him out."

Nicky looked at him, somewhat puzzled, before staring out of the window at the rainy city of London.

The taxi emptied them just outside of the secret headquarters that served as the main CIA branch in London, where Bourne searched for one of the famous red telephone booths. Finding one across the street he dialed the number he had memorized for Langley, the headquarters back in Virginia.

"How my I direct your call?" the operator answered cheerfully.

"I've placed a bomb in the London headquarters which is set to explode in ten minutes." Bourne hung up the phone after his simple statement, exiting the booth and coming into the crosshairs of Nicky's glaring eye.

"That's your plan?" she said, half bemused. "Jason how does a fake bomb help us?"

"Remember the last time I was in London, meeting with that reporter from The Guardian?"

"Simon Ross?"

"Yeah well it's the same plan: in the frenzy I'll be able to slip a clean phone onto McPherson, and I'll call with instructions."

"How do you know he'll play ball?" Nicky asked, trying her best to keep up.

"Because he doesn't have a choice."

Nearly five minutes later a steady stream of people began emerging from the off white building, not running but not walking either. Many were looking back at the building, expecting it to burst into flames any second.

Among the crowd, Bourne spotted McPherson! His white hair and large, black framed glasses were a dead giveaway. "Wait here," he said, moving away from Nicky.

Bourne put the hood to his jacket high over his head in an attempt to conceal his face, wondering if this made him look more suspicious. He walked right up to McPherson, who was screaming into his own phone, and bumped into him, muttering a low, "sorry," as he placed the phone into his tweed jacket pocket. Now all he had to do was wait.

Jason and Nicky decided to wait at a quiet pub, where Nicky could use her laptop to gain some information on McPherson. They needed something that would make him obey their orders, no matter what they were.

Jason ordered a beer from the red bearded barmen, who struck up a conversation. "Been here before?" he asked in a heavy Irish accent.

"A couple times," Jason replied, keeping his eyes low so that maybe the barman would leave him alone.

Beside him, Nicky typed furiously, emitting a low grunt or a heavy sigh here and there. "They've improved their firewall," she informed him, continuing to type. "I don't know if I can get in."

"Just do your best Nicky-we both know you're good enough."

The news blasted from a flat screen overhead, the balding British man from the BBC talking about Yemen and some terrorist training camp. Then, after the story ended, a breaking news bulletin flashed across the screen, informing the audience that an office building had evacuated after a bomb threat. The footage showed the city bomb squad preparing to enter the building, fully padded and secure.

"That must've been what he was screaming about," Bourne muttered to himself, smiling at the irony. The police had somehow found out about his "prank," sending the bomb squad and completely compromising the undercover base that even British Intelligence knew nothing about.

"I'm in!" Nicky half yelled next to him.

Bourne peered over her shoulder as she scanned the documents relating to McPherson. There was nothing there that would easily turn him, and Bourne knew that he would have to do things the hard way; the way that he hadn't preferred. He would have to use his family.

"There's nothing here Jason," Nicky said, looking up for the first time in nearly an hour. "What are we supposed to do?"

"We're going to his home," Bourne said back, unfazed. "It's the only way," he added, seeing the look that played its way across her face.

"There's got to be another way," Nicky said, biting down hard on her teeth out of frustration. "Any way."

Jason thought it over, deciding. "I have an idea," he said after a few minutes silence.

* * *

Jason and Nicky took a taxi to Tom McPherson's house.

The house, located in an upscale neighborhood just outside of London, was a large white victorian, with equally large red shutters and a blood red front door. The impressively sized manor was surrounded by a large iron fence, with a push button intercom located just to the left of the drive.

Bourne stepped to the intercom and pressed the button, hoping for silence.

"Hello," a voice sounded, high and cheerful.

"Hello, Mrs. McPherson?" Bourne asked, imitating the barman's heavy accent as he spoke.

"That's me," she responded. "May I help you."

"Yes ma'am I'm with the city engineering department, and there has been a large break in the gas main underground. We need all residents to evacuate immediately. The problem will be resolved by the evening."

"Oh okay," she said. Bourne was reminded of a dainty old grandmother when she spoke. "I should leave now then?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am, we ask that anybody in the house leave now until at least six in the eve. Perhaps a shopping trip into the city will pass the time."

"Okay thank you very much sir."

Jason and Nicky waited behind one of the large bushes that lined the drive, the gates opening a few moments later to allow Mrs. McPherson's B.M.W. to exit. After the beamer had disappeared behind a corner, Jason and Nicky slipped through the closing gate.

The interior design of the house was open and well situated for entertaining, and its size was just as impressive as the exterior suggested it would be. Jason looked around, noting the family pictures that lined the foyer, and the impressive marble floor beneath his feet.

"Some place," Nicky said, picking up a large urn that looked expensive. "This is what we gave up when we joined I suppose." She smirked, replacing the urn to its rightful place on a glass end stand.

"Don't forget McPherson works for the company," Jason said reminding her.

"Do you think he's taking kickbacks?"

"I don't know," Jason replied honestly. "But that would certainly explain the palace."

Nicky laughed, and Bourne smiled back at her, thinking about when they had been close together at her apartment. When he had finally felt human again.

"Now what?" Nicky asked, walking into the sunken living room and plopping down on the large couch littered with pillows.

"We wait," Jason said, sitting next to her. "If he isn't back by four then we call the phone I planted on him."

"And if he does come back before then?"

"We have our little conversation together."

Jason stood, looking around, and decided to start searching McPherson's house, starting with the upstairs.

"I'll help," Nicky volunteered, following him up the spiraling staircase lined with white carpet.

Jason started in the master bedroom, Nicky taking McPherson's home office. Bourne checked everywhere that he could think of: the obvious places such as under the bed, the top of the closet, the end stands; even the not so obvious places such as lighting fixtures, behind outlet sockets, even the pipes under the bathroom sink. Everywhere he could think of had turned up empty.

"Found something," Nicky yelled from the office.

Bourne entered the small study, his mouth opening slightly in surprise.

Books had been thrown from their shelves, the desk sat upturned, a small hole could be seen in one of the walls and, just beyond the overturned desk, Nicky stood holding a leather bound book.

"What she asked," seeing his look.

"You ... destroyed the place," Bourne said turning a wide circle to show his careful inspection of the room. For the first time that he could remember, he was both stunned and speechless.

"I was just being thorough," Nicky said back, dismissing his criticism. "Look at this." She held the book, revealing that it wasn't a book at all, but rather a hollowed shell to hide things.

"What's in it?" Jason asked, crossing the room to join her.

The book contained a very large brass key, that looked much like the key you would receive upon checking into a dingy motel that didn't use swipe cards.

"What do you suppose it's for?" she asked, dropping the hollowed book and holding the key up to the light to view it closely.

"Probably a lock," Jason said back sarcastically, smiling over at her. "Just a guess though."

They continued their search of the house which culminated in the basement, a large rectangular slab of concrete with a thick rug that covered half of it and a pool table that sat neatly over the rug.

"How much do you want to bet that the whatever this key unlocks is under there?" Jason asked, signaling to the green and blue rug with circular patterns.

"Yeah I bet," Nicky said, waving her hand and rolling her eyes.

They moved the pool table to the far end of the room, the rug being all that remained in the center of the room. Jason pulled the rug back with one, swift motion, and revealed a square titanium hatch underneath.

"Told you," he said, extending his hand for the key. Nicky sheepishly handed it over, amazed that he had been right.

Jason used the key to unlock the hatch, pulling it open to find a large, hidden subbasement.

"How did you know?" Nicky asked, peering down into the dark room.

"You could see the square outline in the rug," Jason answered, smiling once more.

The two descended the stairs into the subbasement, and Jason found a light switch at the bottom, powering the industrial size lights that hung above. The room was lined with shiny metal shelves, upon which sat numerous items. These items included guns: hand guns, sniper rifles and fully automatic machine guns; grenades: fragmentation, flash-bang, smoke; knives, and even a special, small tray that was dedicated to a number of different things. The tray held four different cell phones, ordinary, everyday items such as toothpaste, shoes, an iPod, and even a bible. Bourne assumed that these were various concoctions that the scientists at Langley had invented for any number of reasons.

Nicky roamed the room, studying each shelf like she was looking for something particular. After a while she found it, exclaiming "jackpot." Bourne walked over to the corner where she stood hunched over, pulling a large silver case from the bottom shelf. She opened the case with a snap of the locks, and stood back, looking to Jason for his thoughts.

"This definitely didn't come from just saving up change," Bourne said, peering down at the stacks of green, red, and even blue bills that filled the space in the container.

"What do we do with it?" Nicky asked, picking up one of the passports that sat on top of the money and flipping it open.

Bourne answered by reaching down and grabbing three tight stacks of euros, which he placed in Nicky's shoulder bag that she toted around with her computer.

"You're just going to take it?" she asked, looking from the money to him and back again.

"Not all of it," Jason replied, grabbing three more stacks of bills, US Dollars this time. "But all this riding around in cabs is starting to get expensive ... It's not like either of us are getting paid."

Nicky shrugged her shoulders, dropping the passport that she had opened back into the container.

Bourne finished placing money into the bag and glanced at the wall of pistols, trying to decide which to choose. Ultimately he decided on a Heckler and Koch USP compact .45 tactical edition, with a suppressor to go with it.

He looked back to the pistols, picking up a small Walther PPK/S, which he handed to Nicky. "Here, put this in your purse," he instructed, handing her the weapon.

"You think I'll need it?"

"Better to be safe than sorry."

Bourne grabbed a cell phone from the tray of miscellaneous objects before he and Nicky headed back out and up into the living room. Bourne glanced at his watch, realizing that it was almost four o'clock. Their search had taken nearly three hours to complete.

Bourne grabbed the McPherson's home phone from the end stand next to the couch, dialing the number to the cell phone he had placed on McPherson.

"Hey honey I know I'm late," Tom McPherson started when he answered, "but some idiot called in a bomb threat and this whole place is a mess. Can we push dinner back a few hours tonight?"

The magic of caller ID, Jason thought to himself. Not only did it tell him that Tom hadn't talked to his wife yet, but also that his bomb threat earlier was putting undue stress on the old man, all signs that indicated that he would cooperate that much more easily.

"You have twenty minutes to get home," Bourne said, looking down at his watch. "Don't talk to anybody, don't make any calls. Don't do anything stupid, and your wife will be okay." He added the last part for dramatic effect, getting into his subject's mind and thereby controlling his actions.

The line was silent for a moment, before Tom burst through the earpiece, his voice emotional, "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing, yet. You now have nineteen minutes." Bourne hung up the phone.

* * *

Twenty two minutes later Tom McPherson burst through his own front door, the hinges creaking madly against the sudden movement.

He slumbered forward, heading for the living room, when Bourne stepped from the small alcove in the foyer, suppressed .45 high in his hand. McPherson froze, eyeing the man he hadn't seen in nearly five years.

"Jason Bourne," he said disgusted. "I should have known."

"Just put your hands up and keep your mouth shut," Jason said, eying him carefully. Bourne had kept the gun on McPherson, his finger taking the loose slack out of the trigger.

"Why are you in my home and where the hell is my wife asshole?" McPherson spat, entering the living room, eyes roving for a sign of his wife.

"Stop there," Jason instructed loudly, letting the man know who was in charge. "Nicky, pat him down."'

Nicky quickly checked McPherson for any weapons, coming up with a Ruger 9mm and a tactical knife. "He's clean," she said, placing the items on the end stand next to the couch.

"My wife isn't here, is she?" McPherson asked, nearly laughing. "You are good Jason, you always were. Or should I call you David now?"

Bourne remained silent, instead grabbing a fist of McPherson's suit jacket and marching him to the basement, where the pool table was neatly placed on the carpet once more. Jason didn't want McPherson to know that he had found his secret stash quite yet.

"Nicky, would you be so kind as to grab a roll of duct tape from upstairs please. I saw some in the kitchen drawer under the coffee pot," Jason said, smiling at McPherson.

Nicky left and returned holding a thick roll of grey duct tape. "You know," Jason said, strapping McPherson to the pool table, "this is the second time I've had to duct tape somebody down today. Well, technically third I suppose." He smiled again, toying with him.

"What do you want Jason? I don't have time for all the theatrics. I'm a section chief, I know the interrogation manual back to front. You don't think these little mind games will work on me, do you?" He sounded confident, but unsure at the same time. It was as though he was holding something back. Jason realized that that something was fear. Sure Tom McPherson, London Section Chief, knew the manual front to back, that was his job. What he didn't know, and, Jason guessed didn't want to find out, was just how painful torture is. Reading about what to do when being interrogated is one thing, but remembering what the manual was even called became impossible once the pain started. All you wanted was for it to stop. Eventually it would, because everybody breaks. Everybody gives in at some point, for some reason.

Jason circled the pull table, eyeing McPherson up and down. Finally, after deliberating somewhat, he pulled the pistol he had taken earlier slowly from his pants. Next to McPherson's head, Bourne screwed on the suppressor quickly, and racked back the slide and released it, chambering a round and making the infamous metal "gun sound."

"What do you want?" McPherson repeated, waiting for Jason to speak.

Bourne continued to remain silent however, and began circling the table again. He held the gun out as he walked, allowing the end of the suppressor to touch the side of the pool table and make a metal on wood sound as he circled. Bourne finally stopped, putting the gun up to McPherson's knee, so that the barrel was aiming straight down, flush with the man's kneecap.

"What are yo going to shoot me in the knees?" McPherson asked laughing. "That's a bit cliched, isn't it?"

Bourne realized that Tom McPherson was a mentally tough old man, who was stubborn enough to withstand pain if it meant not giving you what you want. Bourne didn't answer his question, and instead squeezed the trigger. The suppressed bullet sliced through McPherson's knee and buried itself deep within the wood of the pool table that he was strapped to. Blood streamed quickly from the wound, staining the green felt of the pool table a dark, crimson red.

Bourne set the weapon at McPherson's feet, and walked slowly to the top of the table, looking down upon his subject. His face was contorted in pain, blurting curses here and there among other indistinguishable words.

"YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!" He screamed at Bourne, straining against his binds.

Bourne spoke calmly and quietly, as though he were in a library. "I wanted you to know that I'm serious," Bourne said, staring into McPherson's eyes. "I want you to believe me when I say that I'll kill your wife if you don't tell me what I need to know."

Jason noticed as Nicky quietly acceded the steps, leaving the basement. Staring at her disappearing back he paused, before turning back to McPherson and continuing. "Why did you send the teams after Nicky and I? Why did you kill Pam Landy? Why do you want the three of us dead?"

McPherson chewed on his tongue, thinking how best to answer those questions. "I sent the teams to follow you, not kill you Jason, and I didn't kill Landy."

Jason could sense that he was holding something back and, when he didn't continue, grabbed the gun at McPherson's feet. "Maybe I'll see if your wife knows anything," Bourne said, feigning a move toward the stairs.

"No stop!" McPherson shouted, calling Jason back. "There's something else."

Jason stopped and waited, hoping that he would finally get some answers; finally understand why he was in London, reverting back to his old self and torturing an old man instead of sitting in his apartment in Paris, or maybe getting a coffee with Nicky. Bourne pushed the thought from his head, focusing entirely on McPherson. Maybe he would finally find out why Pamela Landy, his friend, had been gunned down. It was the question that had been nagging at him; the one that he needed an answer to.

McPherson licked his cracked lips before speaking. "We're watching you because we're hoping that you'll lead us to somebody else, Jason."

"Who?" Bourne asked, gripping the pistol hard in his hand.

"Mark Webb," McPherson replied softly. "Your brother."


	4. Author's Note

I just wanted to let everybody know that, yes, I am still alive. The past couple months have been . . . well, I guess interesting would be the best way to put it. Luckily, I've written a short narrative explaining my absence which should clear up some of the ridiculous rumors circulating the tabloids. Here's the truth, exactly as I care to remember:

* * *

I closed the screen of my laptop, simultaneously leaning back in my office chair. A smile played across my face, as it usually did after I finished writing. I had just finished another chapter in the Jason Bourne fanfic that I had decided to write, and liked what I saw as a promising start to a fun adventure. Sure, the story was only for fun and would never grace the inside of any hard backed edition complete with the Oprah seal of approval, but I was writing again and that was what was most important.

I stood, stretching my arms high and gazing lazily out of my office window and across the enclosed grounds within with we lived; my eyes tracing the movement of the mailman making his way up our drive. I stared for a few seconds, wondering who the new mailman was, and what had caused Raul (our usual postman) to miss a day - he never missed a day.

I made my way downstairs, intending to greet the man delivering our mail and find out just what had happened to Raul, when suddenly the door in front of me - our family's front door - was busted in by none other than the postman himself, wielding a stubby TEC-9 machine pistol, whose ominous looking barrel was pointing in my direction.

I had never seen a TEC-9 in person before, but am more than familiar with weapons, owning several myself, and I knew that that particular model spat out thirty 9mm shells in just a few seconds, which was all it needed to shred my body to pieces.

Before I had time to register what was happening and why, two shots distinctively rang out behind me, the mailman dropping; blood streaming from the fresh holes in his chest. As blood started to run in every direction on our marble foyer, one singular thought ran through my mind: _Thank god my parents aren't home!_

I finally turned, my eyes greeting my savior: a hardened looking man in his late thirties; an H&K USP in his hand.

"I'm Jason Bourne and we need to talk," the man said, signaling that we go upstairs and have a conversation.

I stood silent for several moments before finally breaking out into a laugh. I had tried to hold it in, but the laughter had escaped and had manifested itself into more laughter, like I was just told the funniest joke in the whole damn world or something. Even I knew that I was being fucking hysterical.

Bourne waited until my laughter subsided, once more signaling that we head upstairs and away from the pool of blood now inching under my own socks.

Once upstairs we sat opposite one another on the two couches in my family's sitting room. I waited for the man to speak first, opting for silence as opposed to . . . well, I suppose more laughter was a possibility.

"I actually am Jason Bourne the man said, eyeing me carefully. "Perhaps I should explain. Jason Bourne, as you know him at least, is a propaganda tool created by the United States government. The books, the movies, even the shitty video games were all part of an attempt to do two things: first, gauge public reaction to such ideas as a covert killing squad, and two, to make citizens believe that the C.I.A. already had such a program, so as they could both accept it and see the benefit of it, had we ever been compromised. The agents who make up the program are known as "Jason Bourne," for both cover and, I suppose, humor. We are, believe it or not, _actually_ called "Operation Blackbriar," to deceive any foreign intelligence agencies catching wind of our activities. If they received a name from a popular movie, then the intelligence would of course be dismissed and most likely considered disinformation."

I sat there, my mouth opened slightly which, once noticed, I managed to close as quickly as my brain could relay the message. Surely this was some sort of joke? NO! I told myself, DO NOT START LAUGHING AGAIN! "Why are you telling me all of this?" I somehow managed, despite the sensation of nausea, diarrhea and laughter all bubbling inside of me. I must have been the first person _ever _to have all three of those symptoms combined!

"Your writing has been completely accurate about my activity - that's why they sent me. My handler's want to know who your source is and why you decided to publish it all as fanfiction."

"Funny story," I started, giggling slightly out of nervousness, "there is no source, or conspiracy, or whatever. I have actually just been writing a story from my imagination. I promise you!"

Bourne hesitated slightly before responding. "Damn. You don't remember anything, do you? You were my handler, Erik. You were our youngest recruit and had very promising talent. Then - well, then you snapped. You disappeared and never came back. After Bosnia."

This time I didn't bother closing my open mouth, there was no point after what he had just said. I sat there, completely frozen. "You're kidding, right?" I half smiled.

"I wish I were," Jason said, breaking eye contact for the first time while speaking. He stood suddenly, clearing his throat and making for the top of the stairs where he stopped, turning toward me. "Keep writing Erik," he said, smiling for the first time. "It dispels suspicion. We'll be talking again soon."

"Wait!" I half shouted, willing him to answer my final question, the answer of which I needed to know. "Why was he trying to kill me? Who was that?"

Jason Bourne glanced down at the body, before looking back at me and responding. "Independent hire," he said. "His job was to take you to the people who had hired him."

"And who hired him?"

"We don't know, but we will. Have a goodnight Erik."

Bourne left, stepping carefully over the body as he made his exit. _What now? _I thought to myself, staring into my own hands. _What now?_

* * *

So that is why I haven't been on and updated. Believe it or not, it takes **a lot** of effort to clean and dispose of a body, and **a lot** more effort to calm yourself after that is done. For weeks after that I just relaxed, numbing myself with TV and movies; bags of popcorn and Coca Cola. I was afraid that when I sat down to update that the truth would be pretty scary. What if I remembered something horrible about myself? That, however, is the truth behind why I have yet to update - As I, uhh, remember that is. Good news is: I will update more, and soon too! I still have a passion to write and quite a lot of time so that is exciting!


End file.
